Injecions of Fear
by scoobavillian
Summary: Sherlock is excrutiatingly bored and soon finds excitement by the way of two Dutch criminals. A friend is lost, Sherlock is in major danger, and John has to solve all the problems on his own. Not a slash. John/Anthea pairing. More chapters to come.
1. An Injection of Fear

**I don't own Sherlock. If I did, it would illegalize all slash.**

**Sherlock sat bored, pondering the holes in his walls. He had played his violin, shot of all his gun rounds, yet he still found no satisfaction. He opened up his laptop, not knowing what he'd do. Sherlock decided it would be most simple to hack into John's blog. Once guessing his password in 2 or 3 tries, he explored the bloggers private messages. As always, he had 1 from Sherlock that sat undeleted. But this time he had a message from Anthea.**

**"Sup. Are you free at 7:00?- Anthea"**

**He didn't find a response. So eager to find out what his response was, he went on and hacked his phone account. Seeing a call to Anthea, he could automatically infer that he said yes. If he said yes, he wouldn't have been so conscious on his reply.**

**Sherlock would smother this in John's face.**

**"JOHN!" Sherlck hollered.**

**No reply.**

**"JOHN!" he yelled once more.**

**No reply. Looking at his watch, it was 7:12. John had left and Sherlock hadn't noticed. This wasn't odd, in fact it was normal. The only disappointment was that he couldn't rub it in his face at the moment.**

**London was dark. It was only 7:00, yet it looked like midnight. Due to the lack of light, most of Baker Street was asleep. Sherlock normally wouldn't fall asleep for a while, probably not within this week. Yet he felt drowsy. This was odd, because Sherlock had only skipped 1 night of sleep, but he could usually hold up for weeks. He looked to his water he only took a sip of, and saw a disolving tablet. It was finishing it's act of disoulution when Sherlock captued it's presence.**

**"Shit", he exclaimed, before falling on the table.**

**Sherlock awoke with something covering his head. He could tell it was a bag, and he could tell from the pain in his wrists that he was tied in a wooden, uncomfortable chair. He could not see through the bag, because it was a dark black and there wasn't much light. Sherlock could feel he was outside. London was cold and he could feel the brisk air like sharp needles on his skin poking out of his robe because the sleeves were crinkled up to his elbows.**

**'Damnit' he thought.**

**His sleeves were up. Any normal human being could have just assumed that it was a coincidence that their sleeves were rolled up. But Sherlock wasn't average. He could easily infer that will out of consciousness, the criminals could have easily injected anything into him.**

**He heard voices from wherever. They were covering in a rapid forgein language. Latin? Italian? Sherlock came to the conclusion that it was Dutch. He could tell because he could not understand a lick of it and Dutch was one of the only languages he was too lazy to learn. The only other language he didn't bother to learn was Polish, and this definitely wasn't Polish. He regretted his procrastination and laziness.**

**Sherlock had the bag ripped of his head violently. It licked the under right-side of his neck. He was introduced to a young, pale, plump man in large, baggy jeans and a sloppy shirt. He was accompanied by a second man, with neater attire. Both held small handguns in a threating manner. They held up a poster, comparing it with Sherlock's face. It was obviously a poster, offering a bounty for the detective.**

**He saw a needle be inserted into his wrist, giving Sherlock a reason to writhe in his seat. Sherlock felt his eyelids start to droop, although he was fighting against the effects of the drug. As soon as soon as the moment came when his eyelids dropped, but he was still conscious, he could hear his to back chair legs scratch against the floor. For the first time, Sherlock was actually scared. He hoped that whatever drug was in him, it wasn't in John. For he was his only hope in friendship and life. If John was okay, he would be smart enough to save him. Sherlock was only imagining where he was going.**


	2. Give Me Liberty or Give Me Death

Hey guys. This is the continuation of Injections of Fear. I apologize for the typo in the original's story title and other mistakes. I'd like to give a shout out to Dinogeek for the suggestions. Enjoy!

John and Anthea walked into the apartment door of 221 Baker street. Gentlemen-like, John had held open the door for Anthea. After a light dinner, they had taken a stroll down most of the city, and John's feet were excruciatingly throbbing. John's mind wasn't on that though. It was on Anthea. He always thought her and Mycroft had something going on, but he was mistaken. As the couple walked up the stairs, Anthea stopped.

"John?" Anthea said.

"What's wrong?" John said concerned.

There was an awkward silence between the two.

"I'm going home; I'm feeling sick to my stomach. I think it was something bad I ate at dinner, but I'll see you tomorrow," Anthea explained.

"Alright, I'll se you later."

"Bye, John"

John watched as she walked out of the door, letting it slam. The sound echoed through the stairway hall. John let out a sigh as he walked up to Sherlock's room. He took the key out of his pocket, and unlocked the door. He took a step into the room, flicking on the lights on. What he saw could qualify as hell.

The place was a train wreck. The telly was smashed, all the shelves and dressers were tipped over, and about all possessions were either broken or stolen. Any normal person would have fainted or been wondering "Where the hell is the telephone?", but due to John's experience, he just wondered where the hell Sherlock was.

Brainstorming ideas, he called his phone. It went straight to voicemail, and of course it was an automated message. John realized he had picked up a few tricks from Sherlock. Gathering the second laptop that John accused Sherlock for being crazy to need from the bed, he went onto AT& to access Sherlock's phone account. He hovered over the tool bar "my location". The current location of Sherlock's phone was New York. New York in America.

"Damnit, Sherlock," he said typing 'plane tickets to New York.

Meanwhile...

Sherlock could tell he was on a boat. He heard the ocean water on the side of the boat. Judging by the passengers accent's, he was somewhere in New York. He was in a small suitcase with tied hands and a small zipper crack for air. From the crack, he could see that he was under the floor of the boat. The boat came to a stop, and the suitcase handle was pulled to its full length. Sherlock tried to yell for help, but a gag in his mouth blocked the sound. He could tell he was on top because more light came through the air hole. Putting his eye to the whole, he could see for the first time the Statue of Liberty.

Sherlock inferred he was on concrete because of the sound the wheels change to. He could here voices, everyone sounded like John.

"Can I have 20 dollars?"

"You have the tickets, right?"

"Let's go to Forever 21"

"Where do you want to eat?"

All voices sounded like John. Was this his subconscious trying to say something? Or was it a mere coincidence? Sherlock wondered this.

Later...

Lestrade was investigating a scene that he wanted someone else to do, but was stuck with it. It was a complete stranger, obviously poisoned. She was laying on the floor, with a half disolved tablet in here white wine. An assistant came with the information on the deceased victim.

"What do you got on her?" asked Lestrade.

"Her name is Anthea. We couldn't get a hold of her last name. "She was born on 1978, 17th of February, in London. No criminal record graduated from Yale in America and is currently un-employed to our records. That's all we could find on her," the assistant recited.

He panted for breath, for he was out of breath from his words.

That's all you could find on her? She's been alive for 33 years, and your telling me that's all you can find on her? You have to be kidding me?" Lestrade exasperated.

"I'm sorry, but that's the most we could gather."

"Leave," Letrade said.

The assistant scurried away, probably to find more information so he could please his boss. Lestarde hunched over the scene, pondering it. No finger prints, but her own. Suicide was an option. She was in fact unemployed, so it wasn't incredibly irrational. They turned off the lights to call it an night, sealing off the scene. They closed the door. 5 minutes later, it was opened by someone, but not a detective.

Later...

John leaned back in the airplane seat. He pulled out the backup laptop from his laptop bag. He was still logged into Sherlock's phone account. Refreshing the page, he kept his eye on the green dot that was Sherlock. As he got closer to the Sherlock, the location words under the map got more specific. From America, to New York, to New York City, Brooklyn.

Back in Brooklyn...

Sherlock could hear a door open. A door to a garage or a storage unit. He was still in the suitcase, and he wasn't too thrilled about it. The zipper was opened with a zip noise. He tumbled out of the suitcase and rolled. His rolling was ended by a hard kick to the ribcage. He tumbled and opened, sprawled out on the concrete floor. Sherlock clutched his rib in agony. Turning slowly and shaking, he saw his criminal. He wore a Westwood suit. His face was concealed by a shadow.

Sherlock was bleeding from his mouth. He was coughing, spurting up blood with every cough. He laid in agony on the floor.

"Oh Sherlock. Always so weak in mental stability. Do you need a moment?" the villain said.

"What do you want," Sherlock pleaded

"20,000,000 pounds of money. I'm offering to Scotland Yard what you call a ransom."

"Scotland Yard wouldn't give you a dime for me," Sherlock pointed out.

"WRONG! You have a relative on Scotland Yard, somebody close, Mycroft Holmes."

"Who the h...ell are...you?" Sherlock asked.

He walked out of the garage, leaving 2 men to guard Sherlock, both with Army Browning L9A1.


End file.
